If a poet was righteous.

Apropos a photo of Ginsberg, I
saw at Shakespeare and co.
lifting a finger near the Siene.
April 18, 2019. 

I —messianic and afraid —wonder if a path is known already
a traveler unattained, unmistaken.
I —messianic and confused —remember a voice, a voice of a lady, a movie, a bar in the 
movie, a poet’s café, a young lady sobbing in the dark, moaning a poem about Fidel Castro 
that essentially is about Fidel Castro’s beard, but is really about revolution, or the spirit of 
revolution, or the orgasm of revolution. The poem was both sad and arousing. 
I —messianic and doomed —am in point of being undermined 
by God, my actions (that are impotent and as juvenile as feelings and as sterile as 
sensations of a numb piece of skin, unattached) stray away from verbs
unnamable, faceless, yet poignant, present —this feeling that feels more of me than I can 
detect. My body rolls around in the dark with other bodies that in a general sense 
don’t feel human, or like bodies at all, and more like severed limbs. 
I —messianic and ill —still look under my bed in the darkness, sometimes imagining 
looking under my bed in the darkness, sometimes dreaming of looking under my bed in the 
darkness, sometimes wishing of looking under my bed in the darkness. The moon!
I —messianic and scared of my voice in recordings—wait 
for a language. A symbol! A silence.

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